


You Can Check Out Anytime You Like, but You Can Never Leave

by LSPrincess



Series: You're My Medicine [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Rewrite, Confusion, Delusions, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Drugs, Episode: s03e15 How the Riddler Got His Name, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Illnesses, Implied Overdose, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Overdose, Poetry, Pre-Slash, Regret, Season/Series 03, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Vomiting, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 14:36:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20065657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSPrincess/pseuds/LSPrincess
Summary: “I admit it! I admit that killing you killed a part of me — a part of a whole that’s been rotting ever since. But I have to go forward — I will! Because if I don’t, I’ll die with nothing!” [Ed] cried, and he was sure he would have thrown up by now if there was anything in his stomach to expel. “I already don’t have a body worth a damn — I hardly know if there’s a heart in me anymore! — and I’m clearly losing my brain, but I will have a legacy! A story they will tell — a name they will remember! I will be born anew!”





	You Can Check Out Anytime You Like, but You Can Never Leave

**Author's Note:**

> If this seems rushed, it's because I rushed. I wanted it to be a lot longer, but I also wanted to _get it done,_ you know?
> 
> Here is the second part of the _You're My Medicine_ series in all of its stressful and trippy glory! It's probably a nightmare, ngl, I wrote it at 4 a.m.

_ Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, thus much let me avow — You are not wrong, who deem that my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away in a night, or in a day, in a vision, or in none, is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. _

Such words had haunted Ed’s conscience for days upon days — nights not excluded — dreams upon dreams of now familiar repetition, ghastly images that he had grown to recognize and greet as old friends. But in these dreams that he felt he’d spoken of and fretted over far too much, a new element had made its presence known: a poem, one he knew by heart and mind and soul alike, one he’d just begun to grow sick of now that he’d heard it repeated over and over in that hellscape of his mind.

_ You are not wrong, who deem that my days have been a dream. _

A painful reminder, Ed had deemed it with no shortage of fiery scorn. Days of his life wasted being a bedridden, heartbroken fool, living in a constant loop of despair and naivety, any waking moment spent dreaming of a life far off and yet so close, so similar to his own and yet just different enough. Living in a constant loop of believing that the bottles and bottles of pills and liquors and the assortment of various other drugs he’d procured from one, if not all, of Barbara’s obscure cartels could rectify his biggest mistake, bring back his only friend.

Naivety and wishful thinking make the heart grow fonder, Ed reflected, though fondness and crippling, painful desire seemed inappropriately interchangeable. In the fog of those Lost Days (as Ed had elected to title them), he had lost the ability — and perhaps motivation — to tell the difference between the two. The nights he awoke sobbing uncontrollably because of some nightmare that just _ had _ to stray from the routine timeless spans of strolling through purgatory; the times he’d listen just a little too intently to the words of his undead and unsightly bedfellow and would suffer such violent breakdowns that he’d lose hours to days to an dark curtain of toxic contrition that fogged his mind like an illness; the times he’d spend sitting through his friends’ insufferable speeches about his weakness and incompetence and he’d turn a mindful eye on that clutter of drugs and liquors and wonder just how much he’d have to use before succumbing to that world of eternal torture that waited so patiently for him each and every night — it was all bouts of fondness, spells of love that made him that much weaker than he already felt. That much more human.

_ Yet if hope has flown away in a night, or in a day, in a vision, or in none, is it therefore the less gone? _

Though his mind had no doubt been damaged by this all time low — this helpless, compulsive spree of drug use and subconscious degradation — Ed felt he had grown wiser from the experience, if not in one way, then in another. One way he felt all the more astute was that he would no longer look upon such a word as “hope” and see it as having meaning — it was merely a word, one amongst millions, unbelievably overrated and unimaginably inconsequential. There was no “hope” in Ed’s dictionary anymore, no “hope” left in Gotham or in the world — as if it had ever been there to begin with. In Ed’s enlightenment, he could no longer put faith (another word that had lost all meaning) in hope, but instead could laugh at it with derision. Those fleeting moments of wry, sardonic humor were of the very few that Ed could allow himself a good laugh, for _ in _ his enlightenment, he’d lost all conception of joy and whimsy. There was no hope for him — if there was such a thing as “hope.”

_ All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. _

The painful truth, and damned be it. Ed despised the truth — some new revelation he’d experienced in his Lost Days — for the truth brought to the light unsavory memories and images he wished to burn. The truth was that Oswald Cobblepot had killed his girlfriend — the truth was that he was a heartless, self-absorbed bastard. The truth was that Ed had destroyed his empire. Shot him in the stomach. The truth was that Oswald Cobblepot was rotting at the bottom of Gotham River. The truth was that he’d never come back.

The painful truth, and damned be it. Who needed the truth in a world so swamped with lies, anyway? It was an outlier, an eyesore, and who didn't want to fit in in a world where judgement was rich and belligerent exclusion condoned, if not encouraged? No — dash the truth and send it on its way, bind it and damn it to the deepest pits of Hell, burn it off the face of the Earth, objections overruled and belligerent exclusion lawfully encouraged! Who needed the truth? Who _ wanted _the truth? Ed had lost sight of it long ago, anyhow.

_ All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. _

Such words had haunted Ed’s conscience for days upon days, and no matter where he ran, he felt he could never escape it. He’d scrawled it down on every surface he could find, every sheet or slip or scrap of paper, every mirror, some of the walls, every inch of his own skin. He’d written it down, over and over, recited it to himself and to his friends, preached it like gospel, and _ still _ it persisted, coming from anything and anywhere, everything and everywhere. Currently, it was coming from the figure leaning against the bathroom sink while Ed retched violently into the toilet.

“I’m starting to get the feeling that you don’t _ like it _ when I recite poetry to you,” Oswald said, grinning like the smug bastard he was — the same heartless, self-absorbed bastard that Ed had sent to the bottom of the river (but such things were the truth, and damned be the truth).

“I’m starting to get the feeling,” Ed said with starving, gasping breaths, a bead of sweat rolling down his face and pooling on the toilet seat beneath his chin, “that you’re never going to _ shut up.” _

“Oh, Ed,” Oswald began in that same sickening, motherly tone that always grated on Ed’s last nerve, that same patronizing manner that had always made him sick to his stomach and left him wishing he had enough energy to roll out of bed so he could throw up. Now, it seemed that wasn't a problem.

“I’m as silent as I could be,” he continued, smiling in such a way that reminded Ed far too much of the Cheshire Cat, “—breathing filthy sewer water and sleeping with the fishes!” 

Ed’s entire body shook when he retched again. 

“It’s _ your fault _ that I’m here at all — pumping your poor, frail veins full of all that poison. Filling your stomach with those pills and liquors when you haven’t eaten anything more than a few bowls of soup and pieces of bread in _ weeks. _ I’m starting to sound like the Other You now, aren't I?”

“So my appetite is a little low,” Ed growled, wiping the sweat from his eyes with trembling hands, “that doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world. I’m still here, aren't I?”

“Define ‘here.’”

“I’m still _ alive,” _ Ed clarified with a weak, weary glower. “I’m still _ here _ on the bathroom floor with my head in the toilet like it’s been for the past hour. I’m still _ here _ in this godforsaken town where no one cares enough about me to question my prolonged absence. I’m still _ living, _ Oswald,” he said, reaching up a pale, boneless arm to flush the toilet, despite the lack of substance he’d managed to cough up.

“You may still be alive,” Oswald said with slow, measured breaths, “but you are not _ living, _ Edward! Your life has become one of drugs and liquor and seclusion. You haven’t showered in God knows how long; and I _ doubt _ I've ever seen someone as pale as you — I can see your _ veins, _ Ed!”

“Life’s a bore, anyway,” Ed said with a heavy sigh, slouching against the side of the tub and closing his eyes to minimalize the spinning of the room.

_ “Certainly _ not yours,” Oswald scoffed, kneeling down with uncharacteristic ease and snapping his fingers in front of Ed’s face. “No, not Ed Nygma’s life — he’s living the _ dream. _ Restless nights plagued by hellish dreams, hellish dreams plagued by obscure poetry, waking moments plagued by addiction and hallucinations!”

“‘Addiction’ is offensive and debatable!” Ed barked, snapping his eyes open and pushing himself into a slightly more upright sitting position. “I've spent the past week trying to sober up so I could get stuff done.”

“Yeah, and how’s that been working out for you? All that you've gotten done is an hour spent _ upchucking _ the already meager contents of your stomach. What’s wrong? Withdrawal turning out to be more of a _ bitch _ than you’d bargained for?”

“This whole experience is turning out to be more of a bitch than I bargained for!” Ed roared, his voice breaking and grating against his raw throat. “And yeah,” he added with a strained laugh, “the withdrawal is _ horrible. _ So is the vomiting — and so are my eating habits, but what do you want me to do? Take another hit? Down another pill? Guzzle another shot? They’re all that takes care of this! They’re all that makes this—us— _ me _better!”

“No, Ed,” Oswald growled, his voice low and dangerous, a tone Ed had heard many times before but only rarely directed at him, “I want you to get your sorry ass off the floor and into that bathtub,” he said, gesturing at the clawfoot tub Ed was busy draping himself against. “I want you to take a shower, put on some clothes, and make yourself some goddamn food. And after that, I want you to _ go outside _ and find something to do. Read a book, take a walk, hell, _ kill somebody _ if it’ll get you _ out of here. _ You need to distract yourself, Ed. Sitting here in silence talking to your imaginary friend will only make you realize _ just how badly _ you need another hit.”

To that, Ed paused. Stayed still. Answered Oswald only with a painful stretch of silence that the rotting illusion didn't seem too fazed by. He paused and waited and said nothing, just let himself think, let his brain replay those words over and over, picking them apart like a scavenger would a carcass, looking for something he could take and run with, something he could eat.

“Distract myself,” he said at last, tone slow and calculating, eyes downcast. It was such a broad term with endless possibilities — what could one do to distract themselves? — but with it there came another set of Oswald’s words, something else that had stuck out to him like a bone that had broken the skin, so ugly and wrong but from a scavenger’s point of view, quite _ delectable. _

“Kill somebody,” he echoed, repeating those words, ripping out that broken bone. “Distract myself. Kill somebody. Why, Oswald,” he said with a shaky smile, one that was far too big and unsettlingly unbefitting of his pale, gaunt face, “I’m feeling better already.”

People, as it so happened, were far duller creatures than Ed had ever given them credit for in the past. Such a thing was of no surprise, Ed supposed, but instead unspeakably disheartening. He’d sought out the right people, come up with the right riddles, used just the right amount of showmanship and charismatic flair, and all for what? For a few explosions and murders and obscure messages left for the GCPD? For coming to terms with the painful truth that this city was overrun with mindless animals too thick to know that if a man in a dazzling green suit (who no doubt had seen better days himself) ties them up, monologues to them, and then asks them a series of riddles that their life is in danger? For the unfulfilling satisfaction of proving to others and himself that he was smarter than a handful of Gotham’s most elite? For the endless wave of migraines that he’d been suffering since he started this whole mess? Certainly _ not. _

Despite all the years of being belittled and abused, Ed did not desire validation from this excursion. He didn't need his intelligence to be indirectly commended, regardless of how wonderful such a thing was. He wanted a _ mentor. _ Nay, _ needed _ — nay, _ deserved _ a mentor. For such a great and formidable villain in the making to go without direction is a frankly neglectful and — Ed thought he should stress with an appropriately _ villainous _ smile — a _ dangerous _ oversight. Without anyone to guide his hand, who was to stop him from committing unfathomable atrocities? From becoming Gotham City’s very own Jack the Ripper? From stepping off this pedestal of cunning master-villainy and deviating to the farther throne of _ nation-wide terrorism? _ Such fates were not impossible, and if that is where this reckless path took Ed, then he could revel in the knowledge that it was none the more preventable, either.

In hindsight, Ed could certainly admit that there were…unforeseen disadvantages to sending one’s past mentor and best friend to the bottom of the river hoping it would put them _ that _ much closer to the Hell in which they belonged. There were disadvantages, of course, but nothing Ed couldn't live with — that was very important to remind himself of.

“Nothing you couldn't live with — yes, of course,” Oswald deadpanned from his place in the doorway. “I mean, who would dare challenge _ Ed Nygma, _ the man who went and _ blew up a chemistry professor!” _

“That could have been easily avoided!” Ed snapped, all but grinding his eyes against the heels of his hands. “And can you not _ shout? _ My head—”

“Oh, the recovering drug addict has a headache, you say?” Oswald whined, as if Ed’s suffering were something to _ laugh _ about. To make _fun _ of. Oh, how that spiteful spectre must forget that his entire existence takes place in Ed’s aching mind. For it to hurt and soon expire would be for him to join the _ real _ Oswald in his cold, soggy grave.

“I’d offer you some remedy,” the ghost persisted, his unpleasantly wet footsteps stopping just in front of Ed, “if…well…” He trailed off, and at this proximity, Ed could feel his cold, clammy breath against his cheek, the fetid stench of death and river rot choking him and making his head pound that much more. “If I didn't think you’d get addicted to it,” Oswald mocked, his presence heavy against Ed’s chest like a weight he hadn't asked to bear. “And, you know…if I was _ real.” _

“You don’t have to keep reminding me,” Ed snarled, pulling his hand away from his face to shove this lying, rotting, jeering Oswald back a few steps — an unnecessary precaution, as it turned out, for the spectre was already on the other side of the room. “You’re not real, thanks, I get it — I’m the one that’s suffering the physical repercussions, anyhow,” Ed continued, turning away from the drowned illusion to prepare himself some pale imitation of breakfast: a pitiful spread of unbuttered toast and a glass of water.

“Ah, yes, the physical repercussions of imprudent drug addiction — _ Wildly _ unforeseeable, is it not?”

“Don’t patronize me,” Ed warned as best he could with his strained voice and weary throat. “I was only doing it because…because I…”

“Because what, Ed?” Oswald pressed, tone balancing somewhere between mockingly sympathetic and snippily impatient. “Because you _ regretted _ killing me?”

“No,” Ed barked, his response immediate lest his _ hallucinations _ start to think they’re getting the better of him. “I do _ not _ regret killing Oswald. He was a self-centered, apathetic _ liar _ that—”

“Oh, _ please, _ Ed!” Oswald cried, his dry, nasally chuckle painfully loud in the empty kitchen, agonizingly vociferous in Ed’s aching skull. “You spent days and _ days _ doing every drug you could get your hands on and drinking all of Oswald’s strongest liquors. That’s not regret? That’s not _ grief? _ That’s not a self-destructive coping mechanism because you _ hated yourself _ for killing your only friend?”

“No!” Ed screamed — or rather pitifully yelled, for although he was passionate in his rage, his body seemed incapable of wielding it.

“You’re _ killing people _ to find a new mentor!” Oswald snapped, jerking Ed’s feeble body around to face him, to look down at him in quite the literal sense, for in the _ metaphorical _ sense, Ed felt _ he _ was the one being looked down upon.

“Only because you suggested it!” he retorted, jabbing a shaky, bony finger into the phantom Oswald’s surprisingly sturdy chest.

“Hypothetically, Ed! I suggested it _ hypothetically! _ For what it’s worth I would have _ much _ rather preferred you to stroll through the gardens reading a book instead of going out on a _ killing spree _ looking like a freshly excavated mummy!”

A crude analogy, but one certainly not lacking foundation. Ed was well aware of how terrible he looked — how gaunt and frail, how pale, how _ dead. _ He’d seen it in the mirror, had stared at it for what he could only assume was a little under an hour, speechless and not wanting to speak, anyway. In retrospect, perhaps not _ strong _ enough to speak.

“One could say that my unfortunate appearance is _ your fault,” _ Ed mumbled, taking his breakfast into his unreliable hands with measured care and maneuvering around his ghastly friend to the living room.

“And _ many _ could say that you’re out of your mind!” the aforementioned friend continued, appearing miraculously at Ed’s side with every step he took.

“I am _ not,” _ Ed growled, throwing the first substantial meal he’d had in days on a table and whirling around to glare at Oswald, “going insane. I am _ not _ out of my mind! I know _ precisely _ what I’m doing, how I’m doing it, and how it’s going to turn out. I am _ alive. _ I don’t think I've ever been more _ in _my mind, actually!” he roared, his voice uncannily low.

“Oh, Ed,” Oswald said with a tight-lipped smile, frustratingly unfazed by Ed’s frankly exhausting outburst. “You have no idea how _ right _you are.”

“What the hell is _ that _ supposed to mean?” Ed asked, though some quivering soul deep inside of him dreaded the answer. An answer that, though anxiously anticipated, was never received due to the sudden and thoughtlessly _ loud _ appearance of uninvited guests.

He turned slowly, his legs trembling and head swimming in a new wave of agony, to see just the two ladies he’d been feeling rather liberated from these past weeks of complete and utter imprisonment. Ladies who apparently felt the burning need to kick in as many doors and pound on as many walls as they possibly could.

“Can you _ please,” _ Ed gasped, clutching his head like it might disappear, “stop. _ Pounding.” _

“Oops,” Tabitha said flatly with no detectable ounce of sincerity. She had always been that way, Ed reflected — always careless of what others thought. It was, in a way, an admirable trait, and one Ed would undoubtedly _ kill _ to have. One he just might grovel and beg for — that sweet, delightful independence. Something he’d lost, or, perhaps, never had to begin with.

“Just trying to get your attention, Ed. Hasn't been so easy lately,” Barbara chimed in, always with that condescending smile that never reached her eyes. “Not like your presence has been sorely missed — you look like utter _ shit.” _

“Thank you!” Oswald said with a heavy sigh, a jubilant outburst destined to be heard by only one dreadfully enlightened individual — one who groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“I've been busy.”

“Oh, see, I would say _we've_ been busy,” Barbara said with a dry laugh. “Organizing the _ shambles _ of the post-Penguin underworld, an enterprise in which you,” she persisted in spite of Ed’s discomfort, jabbing an accusational finger at him, “agreed to help.”

“She’s not wrong, you know,” Oswald said, placing his unbearably cold hands on Ed’s shoulders. “The whole…killing me and rocking the criminal underworld so that Barbara could rule? You had a very significant part in that plan.”

“Ms. Kean,” Ed spoke into his hands, covering the way he jerked out of Oswald’s grip with a violent shiver that may or may not have been entirely faked, “the mayor, my _ friend, _ is missing. The underworld knows what that means — they've already moved on. But the _ rest _ of Gotham — I need to be the public face of grief whilst still directing the running of the city. Many voices clamoring in my ear,” he said, plugging his ears for dramatic effect — a dramatic effect that turned more insistent and desperate when one of those damned voices spoke up again.

“You know,” Oswald said with a chuckle, “it really is quite fun to bask in the _ irony _ of this situation.”

“I,” Ed continued with a louder tone, an attempt (that had already been proven not to work) to drown out that pesky voice, “will help you…when I can.”

“Mmhm. Or,” Barbara began, perching at the other end of the table, “could there be _ another _ reason you’re so distracted?”

“What do you mean?”

“I gave you _ pills, _ Eddie,” she said, smiling as if this tiny tidbit of information could be used for blackmail, “yet I don’t see you taking them. Could it be you've already run out?”

“No,” Ed said hastily, which he supposed made him seem all that more suspicious. Suspicion that would be shamefully misplaced, for the truth (and damned be the truth) was that he _hadn't_ run out. He still had them — upstairs on his nightstand, waiting patiently for him to break.

“Right,” she drawled in that (shamefully) suspicious tone with that (un)knowing smile. “You’re not feeling guilty, are you, Eddie? For plugging your buddy and pushing him in the drink?”

“Crude phrasing, but I applaud her perception,” Oswald said, wrapping his arms around Ed’s chest and propping his head on his shoulder. “Or are you just not as subtle as you’d like to be?” 

“Guilt,” Ed began with a wavering tone, “is a useless emotion. And if you can’t control the gangs without me, perhaps you shouldn't be running things.”

“Christ, Ed, do you _ want _her to blow your head off?” Oswald asked, now sitting parallel to the woman in question. And oh, admittedly, it was a very risky statement, and one that could very well get him killed, but if it derailed the conversation and put them off the topic of his ill-concealed regret, he’d gladly take a bullet for that mercy — a bullet that Tabitha seemed far too ready to fire.

“I _ will _ help you when I can,” Ed reiterated, hoping his eyes displayed more sincerity than his feeble voice did — he’d never been good at that full-body lying.

“Don’t take too long,” Barbara said with a poisonous smile, and Ed took that as confirmation enough that he’d been adequately convincing. “And be careful with those pills, Eddie. When I took them, I saw some crazy things.”

“Duly noted,” Ed replied with a nod of acknowledgement — a nod that had perhaps been misconstrued as him gesturing toward the door, for following that nod, the first real people he’d seen in weeks were stomping out of sight. Ed would be lying if he said there wasn't a succeeding pang of disappointment and dread at seeing them leave, watching them abandon him here in this house that served as far more of a prison than it had any right to. And not for the first time in weeks, Ed was alone with his dead friend.

_ “Yet if hope has flown away, in a night, or in a day, in a vision, or in none, is it therefore the less gone?” _

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream,” Ed finished, and he shattered the plate before him to scratch the words into the table.

James Gordon — GCPD detective and, so it seemed, the object of everyone’s petty aggressions. Ed, though he would have once loved to deny it, was one not excluded from that list.

This spur of the moment crime spree did not lack a finish line, and sabotaging a chess tournament was only one of the mile markers. A mile marker that, as his dear friend had kept reminding him, was quite the bottom-of-the-barrel crime. _ Sabotaging _ a _ chess tournament _ — brilliant! Renowned! Shocking! And yet simultaneously a stupefying _ disappointment. _ Disappointment not only in Ed’s originality but in the outcome of such a deed, as well. Near an _ hour _ spent impatiently awaiting Detective Gordon’s arrival, only to be met with the dreadful sight of Detective Bullock and a gang of equally and _ painfully _ oblivious cronies at his beck and call. A day that had gone from bad (courtesy of Ed’s horrifically _ persistent _ migraine and the recent contribution of vertigo) to indescribably _ worse _ (courtesy of the appearance of his very _ least _ favorite people).

However, as it rarely and yet so thankfully turned out, there _ was _ light at the end of the tunnel, for in the absence of the greatly anticipated James Gordon, there stepped in a ray of thrilling sunshine in the form of one Lucius Fox — a man Ed had had the pleasure of interacting with merely twice: Once, when he solved his riddle (oh, and what a clever man he was), and twice, when Ed had threatened his and the treasured Mr. Bruce Wayne’s life. Lovely memories that Ed held dear, and made even lovelier still with the promise of future memories to be made with that _ enigmatic _ (a word Ed was careful not to use lightly) Mr. Fox.

True, he was slow to give Ed a call, but that was a pardon he was willing to make if it merely slowed him down in this arduous long-run instead of stopping him completely. He still got the call, albeit delayed, and still gave his clue. He was still making progressions — slow, sickly, physically _ painful _ progressions, but progressions nonetheless. Progressions that his darling omnipresent friend did not appear too keen about — just as he had been expressly disgruntled by Ed’s defacing of Oswald’s portrait.

“‘The _ Chess _ Killer’! How _ terrifying!” _ he read, throwing the paper down on the table Ed was busy lying his swimming, pounding, inexplicably unwieldy head on. “How will anyone sleep knowing the _ Chess Killer’s _ on the loose?”

“It’s just a name dreamed up by some hack,” Ed groaned in response, none too proud of the way his words slurred together. “Today…today will change _ everything.” _

“This is a _ mistake, _ what you’re doing,” Oswald snapped, mercilessly yanking Ed’s head up by his hair.

“I don’t recall asking _ you!” _

“I showed you how to be Ed Nygma — a man who could run the underworld and operate in plain sight. What you are planning is _ madness!” _

“No, Oswald,” Ed said, and he gripped Oswald’s forever unpleasantly cold and clammy hand, jerking it from his hair and paying no mind to the strands that came loose too easily, for there was a surprising lack of pain — or pain, perhaps, that was far too familiar to stand out in a crowd. “Look at me, Oswald. I’m _ dying _ — can’t you see it? Can’t you _ feel _ it? Can you not feel the life _ draining _ from your pitiful excuse of existence with every step and breath I take? Because I _ can!” _ He paused to breathe — shaky, wheezing, gasping breaths that burned his throat and filled his lungs too much. “And it _ scares _ me, Oswald. It scares me to know that somewhere in the middle of this journey when I’m walking away from an explosion or giving a riddle that I might lose the last shreds of life that have carried me this far. I’ll _ die, _ right there, a man with no friends, no family, no legacy, and hardly a body to bury. So _ please, _ Oswald,” Ed said, a minor spark of shame at the way his voice broke buried and lost beneath the concentration it took to not let the tears in his eyes fall, _“ please _ let me have this. Let me give this city _ something _ to remember me by. It’s a way _ forward… _until I can’t go forward anymore.”

“Ed,” Oswald began, and (thankfully, oh thank _ God _) his voice was much gentler than before, “you haven’t slept since we started this. You haven’t eaten. You even caved and started back on the pills. So of _ course _ you’re dying, Ed. You’re dying because a part of you will constantly believe that you deserve to.” He reached forward and (gently, gently, oh so gently, thank _ God _ ) cupped Ed’s face in his hands, and for a very fleeting moment — so brief Ed could _ almost _ have missed it — he thought he felt warmth in those hands. “Help us, Ed. Help _ yourself. _ Admit that you regret what you've done — admit that you are _ lost _ without Penguin or you will _ destroy _ yourself. Everything you've built, everything you are. There’ll be no one to leave a legacy at all.”

“I can’t, I can’t, Oswald, you know, you _ know _ I can’t—”

“You _ have _ to, Ed! Do you want to _ live? _ Even to survive long enough to make a name for yourself? You can do it, Ed, I _ know _ you can. Admit it, just _ admit it, _it’s not hard—”

“I can’t,” Ed repeated and repeated again. “I have to go, I have to go. Oswald, _ please _let me go!”

For what Ed could remember, he’d hardly seen penguins do much else with their feet than waddle or balance eggs, but _ this _ Penguin had ruthless talons and ones that would not let go of his face.

“You _ can’t _ leave, Ed!”

“Yes, I can, just _ please _ let me go—”

“No! You _ cannot _ leave! You physically _ can’t _ Ed — you don’t _ get it! _There’s nowhere to go!”

“Yes, there is!” Ed bellowed, and he was crying now, tears of magma pouring down his face and melting his cold, rotting skin off. “There’s Lucius — there’s the riddle! The clue! The _ cadets _ — I have to go!”

_ “You cannot go!” _ Oswald screamed — a scream that audibly tore through his throat and would have exhausted him if he’d had windpipes to exhaust.

Ed was crying harder now, and _ oh, _ his _ head _ — he’d fallen out of the chair onto the floor and his _ head, _he was clutching it, holding it in place on his neck while it throbbed with too much blood. Or maybe it was poison — that seemed far more likely, for Ed doubted he had blood left in his veins anyway. All there was was inky black poison, moving sluggishly through his body and melting his brain, and he could feel every passing second of it.

_ A dream within a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream— _

If the room was bathed in red, Ed didn't know if it was blood or light or his eyes boiling in their sockets. If there was music to be heard, Ed was the only audience, and he’d been too deaf for far too long of a time to care. Maybe it was angels singing to him one final song before he died — a speculation that ignited within him enough motivation to lift his head. Upon doing so, however, he was met with the painful truth (and damned be the truth) that it was merely Oswald, bathed in red and clad in a gorgeous tuxedo, and hell, maybe in this nightmare world of endless torture, that was the closest he would ever get to an angel.

_ “Enough! Please!” _ he screamed at last, an echoing, world-stopping, sobbing plea. “I admit it! I admit that killing you killed a part of me — a part of a whole that’s been _ rotting _ ever since. But I _ have _ to go forward — I _ will! _ Because if I don’t, I’ll die with nothing!” he cried, and he was sure he would have thrown up by now if there was anything in his stomach to expel. “I already don’t have a body worth a damn — I hardly know if there’s a heart in me anymore! — and I’m clearly losing my brain, but I _ will _ have a legacy! A story they will tell — a name they _ will _ remember! I _ will _ be born anew!”

“Penguin saw you, Ed, he was the _ only _one!” Oswald snapped, looming over Ed’s pitifully small form. He was sans tuxedo and top hat and red light now, bathing in the river filth to which he’d grown accustomed — the river filth that Ed would always die just a little faster upon seeing. “He gave you a name! He knew your story! He would have remembered you!”

“Shut _ up,” _ Ed groaned, pulling himself to his feet and hoping the advantage of his height would make him feel less trapped by the spectre of the man he’d killed. Unfortunately but not unexpectedly, it did not. Oswald was still fierce and menacing, his glassy eyes burning with a fire that no river could extinguish, nor lake or ocean, too. It was a stare that could bring Hell to Earth, and Ed could bare it no longer, turning for the door and all but dragging himself to his legacy in the making.

“You can’t leave, Ed,” Oswald said again, though that dreadful ferocity in his tone was nowhere to be found. _ “You are not wrong, who deem that my days have been a dream…” _

“Yet if hope has flown away in a night, or in a day, in a vision, or in none, is therefore the less gone?”

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

If Ed produced a pen to carve the words into his skin, the pain was far too familiar to stand out in a crowd.

A legacy was something that was built through time and from blood, sweat, and tears — all of which Ed felt he had given sufficient if not excess amounts of. He’d torn himself apart to build this legacy, and it was all coming together so beautifully.

One was always given the opportunity to learn from their mistakes, and Ed certainly had. He’d accepted and harnessed the once disappointing realization that the average citizen in this city was mind-numbingly obtuse and instead used it to further his plans. A riddle the cadets could not solve (though it was a classic and _ incredibly _ obvious) meant there was no chance for them to prepare for or prevent the gas bomb Ed had released. And thankfully so, for Ed doubted he had ever experienced a moment as beautiful as that — the fear in the cadets’ eyes, the panic that electrified the room, the gas as it billowed from the bomb and drifted through the air, so strong for something so immaterial, so light a breath could blow it away. It had built itself a legacy with no blood, sweat, or tears, and Ed envied it for the painlessness of that feat more than he could ever express.

The legacy of man took care and patience, of which Ed was certainly running out, but he was determined to see this journey through until he took his last painful breath. The legacy of man required blood, sweat, and tears, of which it had taken oceans of to get to the point of having Harvey Bullock balancing on the brink of death and Lucius Fox waiting to play his game. It was a dream come true, a legacy almost complete.

But perhaps Ed had underestimated that cunning Lucius Fox’s true intelligence — maybe he had lied? — for with one sentence in response to Ed’s first riddle, he’d almost ruined everything.

_ Loneliness. _ A word Ed knew instead as a very close friend — a fate he was damned to have the moment he’d pulled the trigger that had sent Oswald (the _ real _ Oswald — _ his _ Oswald) to the bottom of a river. It was an icy cage around his heart he’d suffered for weeks now…Or perhaps it had been longer. There really was no telling anymore.

_ Loneliness _ was the answer and _ love _ was what he heard. _ Love _ — an emotion almost as useless as regret, and one Ed was certain he had never and _ could _ never feel. Who was there to love in a world — in a _ city _— where love was shunned and shot down? Killed. Drowned. Rotting in a cold, helpless cocoon of Hell. The world was cruel like that. And Ed was even crueller. So he cut a rope.

The second riddle — oh so simple — and yet Fox _ still _ couldn't get it. There was a theme he couldn't see, strings connecting these obscure cries for help to something bigger, something grander, and if Fox could just _ look _ — if _ anyone _ could just _ look _— then maybe Ed wouldn't be dying a lonely individual. He cut a rope.

The third riddle was Ed’s least favorite, though he’d never say that out loud. Every word he spoke of it sent pang after pang of unidentifiable _ agony _ to his heart. He was always proud of himself to make it through, though Fox had ruined what brief moment of celebration he could have in his horribly limited time. And of all the things Fox could have asked, he had to bring up _ that. _That demon of a topic, that serpent that was slowly crushing the life out of Ed.

What did he _ do? _ The better question, Ed figured, was what _didn't_ he do? Who _didn't_ he kill? Whose life _didn't_ he ruin? The answer to that would be far shorter. But Fox was tenacious, and he just _ had _ to say his _ name, _ didn't he? No, he didn't, and hearing it come from someone else’s lips was a dirty rotten _ sin, _ and Ed almost put a bullet in him right then and there. Oswald wasn't _ his _ to talk about.

But he got it right in the end, Ed’s least favorite riddle. And there was such an undeniable _ pain _ to hearing someone get it right, hearing someone solve him like a puzzle, read him like an open book. But he was a book in another language, and though people were reading him, no one understood. If only people _ understood _ — or, perhaps, if Ed could only learn to speak their language — then maybe he might have cared that the final rope snapped anyway, might have cared if Bullock fell to his death or not as he limped his way out of the building, away from the only man besides Oswald who’d been able to read him, away from the penultimate step to building his legacy.

And so he was in the great Lucius Fox’s car, and Fox was talking to him, and though Ed doubted it was anything he wanted to hear, he listened anyway.

“Ed, if there is any part of your mind that is…_ not _insane, listen to me.”

And he was, lost in that compassionate and pitying stare that Fox was just oh so good at giving.

“You need help. Turn yourself in.”

He didn't want to hear it. But he listened anyway.

“My actions…seem…bad to you?”

“To anyone,” Fox confirmed, giving Ed a sad smile he so loathed but now wanted to drown in.

“I…” He couldn't say it, he’d _ never _ said it, why tell Fox? Why _ not _ tell Fox? “I just… _ killed _ …the best friend that I have _ ever _ had. My search for a teacher or…an _ enemy _ …that was just me trying to hold onto him for a little longer.” And that was true, and damned be it, and admitting it was something Ed could physically _ feel _ kill him faster. He could die in this car, pointing a gun at this innocent man, and no one would be able to do anything about it. He was dead anyway, holding on to what scraps of life he could, for there was none left in his body — that much he’d been sure of ever since he looked in the mirror.

“And after so long — after so, _ so _ long, I know who I am,” he continued, shaking with the force of saying what deep down he knew was only a half-truth. _ “Without _ him.”

People could be so easy to string along, to guide like a lamb to slaughter, to trick into giving you what you want. For Ed, Fox had just done that.

_ Who are you? _

“I’m the _ Riddler,” _ he said, and his legacy was made.

Ed had heard people say that they “blinked and they missed it,” with _ it _ being an independent variable that could represent any number of things. In Ed’s case, _ it _ was his sudden relocation from Fox’s car to the docks where he’d ruined his life. One moment he was a king, flying high, ready to die, his life’s mission fulfilled, and with a blink he was at the beginning of the end, staring out at the rolling waves in a breeze colder than Death itself. And what was more surprising than his new surroundings was how unfazed he truly felt by it. Of course, there was confusion, but nothing so urgent that he troubled his foggy mind with it. If there was a question, it would be answered and could be without being spoken. To prove his point, there came a voice.

“Finally out of your _ funk, _are we?” Oswald asked, walking around from whatever spot he’d been occupying behind Ed to face him with a condescending smirk.

“Funk?” Ed asked, leaving paragraphs unspoken, too distracted by how distant and weak his voice sounded.

“Yes, your _ funk.” _ Oswald turned to the river. “You came here last night to get rid of the pills. You never left. You've been standing there for hours mumbling crazy things I couldn't even _ begin _ to follow.”

“Last night?” Ed backtracked, concern suddenly taking over. “What do you mean ‘last night’? _ When _ last night?”

“After you and I talked. I followed you the whole ride here to make sure you didn't unknowingly _ kill _ any pedestrians — not to worry, I think you only hit a dog — and when I asked you why we were here—” he gestured to the hellish river— “you said it was to ‘end your legacy’. A bit dramatic, I’d say.”

There are moments in one’s life when it feels as if the world around you is crumbling and falling, your head swimming, your heart _ stopping. _ This was one of those moments.

“No, no, that’s _ impossible!” _ Ed cried, turning to face Oswald and falling to his knees. His legs were weak and numb — he felt like he hadn't moved in _ hours. _ “That’s not true, I _ left! _ I went to Lucius, I gave him my riddles, I gave him my _ name! _ I did it, I made a legacy!”

“The only legacy _ you _ made was in your own _ mind, _ Ed!” Oswald said, driving a stiff digit into Ed’s forehead. “Where it’s been all along. You’re a dying man who can barely stand for short periods of time without almost passing out. Did you really think you could manage something like ‘building a legacy’? It was a _ fantasy, _ Ed. One I tried to work you out of. It wasn't real. It never could have been.”

“You’re lying!” Ed screamed, and oh, how desperately he wanted to believe it — that he’d blink again and open his eyes in Lucius’ car, and he’d apologize for losing himself in his own head and maybe _ consider _ turning himself in. He needed help.

_ “Look _ at yourself, Ed!” Oswald squawked, jerking Ed’s hat off of his head and hitting him across the face with it. “You’re on your knees screaming at a hallucination in the place where you shot your best friend! The bags under your eyes are so dark I need a _ flashlight, _ you’re shaking harder than I've seen you before, and you’re holding the pills in your hand! _ Wake up, _ Edward Nygma! You’re _ sick _ and you’re _ lost!” _

He was shaking. Terribly so, so hard he could hear the pills rattling around in the caddy he was clutching in his hand. From where he’d gotten the caddy, he couldn't even remember, and that fact made him laugh so briefly and cry for what he knew would be much longer. Much longer suffering the inescapable maze his own mind had become, where every turn was a dead-end and every dead-end was another way to torture himself. At first, it had seemed fun. But now, on his knees screaming at a hallucination in the place where he shot his best friend, it was simply one more reason to dump those pills in the river. End the legacy he never got to complete.

So he lunged for the edge. And staring down into those waters, he saw a face that was not his own. One that was bloated and blue and rotting, and with the blink of an eye it was out of the water and nose to nose with him. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't, and the face produced arms from that bottomless pit of inky black water, reaching up and cupping Ed’s face in hands that hardly felt real.

“You can’t leave, Ed,” that satanic Topielec said, water bubbling out of its mouth, repeating words Ed had heard before, words that flooded him and pulled him under like water rushing through a sluice, ice-cold hands that grabbed him by the neck and tugged him down into the merciless waters of terror. They were the words of Ed’s friend, and though this creature from the depths had the same face as the one that plagued his conscience, he convinced himself that it was a lie. So he clutched the edge of the pier in his dying, shaking hands, squeezed his eyes shut, and screamed with everything he had in his chest.

Upon opening his eyes, he saw nothing but cloudy sky and the distant silhouettes of passing birds. In his hand, there was an empty pill caddy, and in his mouth, there was such a foul, bitter taste that he had never wished so badly to throw up. But there was a sort of serenity to it, lying there with no energy in his body and no thoughts in his head. Lying there, _ careless, _ while in the distance he could hear people shouting, but it sounded like a different language, and if it was English, he was too _ careless _ at that moment to worry about not being able to understand them. So careless, in fact, that he closed his eyes and let the breeze take him wherever it pleased. And when he opened his eyes, he was back in the hallway, and perhaps he’d stay there this time. He’d be happy, for here, no one didn't know him. Here, there was no one at all — here, there was only silence, and silence knew him very well. But when he opened his eyes to find himself in this endless loop of torment he’d recently grown to find comfort in, the silence dared to speak to him — speak words he loathed and cried upon hearing.

_ I stand amid the roar of a surf-tormented shore, and I hold within my hand grains of golden sand — How few! Yet how they creep through my fingers to the deep, while I weep — while I weep! Oh God! Can I not grasp them with a tighter clasp? Oh God! Can I not save _ one _ from the pitiless wave? Is _ all _ that we see or seem but a dream within a dream? _

And in the hallway, Ed wrote the words in blood.


End file.
